The Second Messiah (44 page)

Lela shrugged. “Sure, but they couldn’t prove a thing. Before you know it Hassan’s got a raft of legitimate businesses. He’s also dealing in rare and precious artifacts and valuable paintings. Soon he’s very rich. He’s even got a villa outside Rome. If his brother Nidal’s involved, it seems like a reasonable bet that Hassan’s got a big interest in the scroll.”

Jack’s jaw tightened in anger. “And now there’s a good chance he’s got Yasmin.”

“Whoever Yasmin is.”

“Where’s this villa?”

“A place called Bracciano, outside Rome.”

“Tell me about the symbols you said you found on the monastery wall. Show me what they looked like.”

Lela found a pen and sheet of hotel writing paper in the nightstand drawer and drew the symbols.

She said, “Blood splashes trailed from the symbol on the right and onto the floor, which probably doesn’t signify anything except that Novara was bleeding to death. Apart from the fact they could look like a pair of crosses, do these symbols mean anything to you? Could they mean something in Aramaic?”

Jack scratched his jaw. “The letter
t
in an old version of Aramaic was in the shape of a cross. Which would give us a double
t
. Whatever that means. But that was eighth to ninth century
B.C.
I’ve absolutely no idea what the double
t
might suggest. Unless it’s in some kind of code maybe?”

“There’s no other significance you can suggest?”

Jack shrugged. “I’m afraid not. We might even be way off track.”

“The symbols have to mean something, or Novara wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of writing them on the wall in his own blood. I don’t think he expected Pasha to shoot him. Maybe he was enraged and meant to leave behind some kind of evidence.”

“But what does the evidence mean?”

“You’ve got me there. I’m no Aramaic expert, but the guy I rang earlier on the hotel phone is. I’m hoping he’ll call me back.” Jack moved over to the window and looked preoccupied.

Lela said, “What are you thinking?”

“Right this minute? That I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in almost two days.” He looked back and met her stare. “There’s not a snowball’s chance that you could be wrong about Yasmin?”

“I doubt it, Jack.”

“Do you think Hassan might have had something to do with Green’s death?”

“I can’t say. But I don’t think so.”

“Why, Lela?”

“If he had, he’d probably already have the scroll, don’t you think?”

“Good point.” Jack suddenly faltered and put a hand out to grip the nightstand.

Lela grabbed him, giving him support. “What’s wrong?”

Jack clasped a hand to his forehead. “I feel lousy.”

“How’s your leg?”

“It’s okay. But I’ve got a throbbing headache and the room’s beginning to spin. I took a couple of painkillers that made me drowsy. I guess I’m beat.”

“Let me see that gash.” She made him sit on the bed and examined his head. “I’ll need to disinfect the cut with something. How does scotch sound?”

“A waste of good liquor, but go for it.”

She smiled, dipped a finger in her scotch, and dabbed the liquid on his wound.

Jack felt a stinging pain and winced.

Something passed between them then, and as he looked into her eyes he saw a spark of concern. Lela brushed her hand against his face. “Try and sleep, Jack.”

“Can I tell you something? It’s good seeing you again after all these years.”

“For me too.” Lela leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Now lie back.”

He lay on the bed. His eyelids felt like heavy weights. “Aren’t you going to rest?” Jack asked.

“In a while. Close your eyes. Give in to it, please, Jack.”

He sank his head into the pillow. The tremendous strain he had been under was finally taking its toll. His body was filled with an enormous fatigue and this time he didn’t fight it. He closed his eyes and in an instant he felt himself being sucked into a soft cushion of blackness.

ROME

ANNA KUBEL WAS
an undeniably attractive woman: buxom, middle-aged, her blond hair piled high in a bun. She tossed another log in the woodstove in the kitchen and wiped her hands on her apron.
Everything comes to an end
, she told herself. And the end was close now, she could sense it.

Anna wiped a tear from her eye and went to fill a cup of freshly brewed coffee from a pot on the hotplate, and then sat in front of the stove. The centuries-old house, like so many in Rome, was drafty and crumbling. It lacked a proper heating system and at 6
A.M.
the tiled floors made the room feel as chilly as in winter.

Not that she was complaining. She had lived happily in this house for seventeen years since she had first come to Rome from Vienna as her brother’s housekeeper. Sipping her coffee, Anna heard a wheezing intake of breath, followed by a familiar groan of pain.

She turned her head toward the room next door, the noise sending a rapier-sharp stab of anguish through her heart. She put down her cup and saucer, blessed herself, and hurried into the next room.

It was a cramped study-bedroom, the shelves lined with books on archaeology, religion, and history, and cluttered with old photographs. An untidy pile of newspapers lay scattered on a bedside table. It was in this room where her beloved elder brother Franz liked her to read to him from his favorite books and newspapers. It was also where he had chosen to die.

She felt moved to pity as she looked down at his sleeping form under the bedcovers, an oxygen bottle and mask by the bed. A wooden
crucifix
was clutched in Franz’s bony, nicotine-stained fingers and his eyes were shut.

His once-strong, sculpted face was sunken, his cheeks hollow. The skin of his small, wasted body was the same color as the ancient parchments he had spent his life studying, and his sparse red hair—what few wisps were left after the chemotherapy—was plastered across his skull. Her brother would have been sixty-five next birthday if the cancer hadn’t riddled his flesh.

A chain-smoker all his life, now Franz wheezed with every breath. He had endured another difficult night, Anna could tell, sweat drenching his brow. The pained look on her beloved brother’s face was almost too much to bear. As she wiped away another tear, her eyes were drawn to the framed photographs on the walls.

Here was the other Franz she had known. The committed priest whom she and her Viennese parents had been so proud of. Snapshots of Franz as an altar boy and later as a young priest in the seminary at Graz. Images of him in Rome with at least two former popes and three eminent cardinals. Franz’s religious zeal had from time to time led him to move in the Vatican’s more rarefied circles.

Her brother had lived for the priesthood, and nothing had pleased him more than the praise or approval of his superiors.

There were also several pictures of her brother in Jerusalem, and on the archaeological digs that he loved so much—“tracing the blessed footsteps of Jesus,” as he liked to call his many visits to Israel. At least one of the photographs was of Franz and John Becket on a dig, smiling, their arms fondly around each other’s shoulders.

As Anna Kubel’s proud gaze swept over the familiar images she felt a stab of sadness. The photographs were all taken a time long ago. Now Franz was nearing his end. On the nightstand by the bed was a small enamel bowl filled with melting ice cubes. Anna dabbed a flannel face-cloth in the bowl, wet her brother’s parched lips, then folded the icy cloth and placed it on his fevered brow. “Dearest Franz, can you hear me? Would you like a glass of water to cool you?”

He wheezed another breath and his eyelids fluttered. The feeble
spark
in his glassy eyes told her he was truly a man living on borrowed time. But then without warning he reached out and clutched Anna’s wrist, his fingers clawing her flesh with surprising ferocity. “Remember, Anna? No—no more morphine,” his rasping voice reminded her.

Anna gently eased Franz’s grasp and stroked his clubbed fingers. “Yes, dear brother, I remember.”

His head sank back and he erupted in a violent fit of coughing. When it finally ceased, Anna wiped phlegm from her brother’s lips, then placed the oxygen mask over his face. She heard the steady flow of rich air soothe Franz’s wheezing lungs. She knew for certain his time couldn’t be long now. Her brother’s pain had to be excruciating, but Franz had insisted on not taking painkillers. He wanted his senses to remain clear until he spoke with John Becket.

Out in the street Anna heard a violent screech of brakes. She peered past the lace curtain and saw the absurd sight of John Becket’s tall figure clutching a black bag as he pried himself out of a cramped old red Fiat 500. He strode toward the front door. A second later she heard the doorbell buzz, at least a half-dozen sharp, urgent bursts.

Anna forced back her tears as she looked down at her dying brother and patted his hand. “It’s time, dear Franz. John is here.”

JULIUS WEISS HATED
Rome.

Ever since he had first visited the city as a student many years ago, its history got right up his nose. The Romans had scourged the Jews almost into oblivion, and everywhere in this ancient capital’s grandiose architecture was a reminder of that brutal past. To make matters worse, Weiss’s own father had named him Julius. Talk about irony.

He crossed the road near the Colosseum that early morning as a white taxi pulled up at the curb. When he jumped in, the driver nudged out into the traffic and Weiss said eagerly, “Any more word from Lela Raul?”

Ari Tauber swiveled round in the passenger seat and nursed his bandaged hand. “She called me briefly some hours ago, sir. The call lasted less than a minute. She wanted to make sure I was okay. Since then, not a whisper. I’ve tried to have her cell phone located but her signal’s completely dead. I don’t understand. Was there really a need for you to fly to Rome?”

Weiss snorted. “Yes, there was. I have an important meeting.”

Ari Tauber frowned. At first he couldn’t see any of Weiss’s personal bodyguards but then he spotted a powerful Mercedes and a BMW bringing up the rear.

Weiss asked, “What are the chances that she’s no longer alive?”

Ari considered. “Jack Cane’s known her a long time. I get the feeling they’re still friends. I’d be surprised if he harmed her. My gut feeling tells me she’s out there, helping him, for whatever reason.”

Weiss’s lips twisted in a grim expression, his tone urgent. “Find her, Ari. Use every means you have to.”

“I already have, sir. My sources have turned up nothing.”

“
Find
her. No excuses. I’ll assign you extra men to tear Rome apart if need be. And keep calling her phone. If she answers, attempt to hold her on the line long enough for us to get a fix. Wherever she is, Cane and the scroll can’t be far behind.”

“One other thing, sir.”

“What?”

Ari held up his cell phone. “I got a call minutes ago. We got a copy of Yasmin Green’s passport photo from immigration. We couldn’t figure out her identity until we scanned her picture into our computers. Dyed hair and a complete makeover can’t fool digital face-recognition software. We know who Yasmin is, sir.”